


Coping Mechanisms

by xxAphrodite



Category: Baldur's Gate, baldur's gate 3
Genre: Blood Kink, Just Sex, M/M, Or Really Current Relationships, Past Relationship(s), Rough Sex, don't deal with jealousy this way friends, for once, not a good look, or make people jealous this way, sex on a bed, unhealthy af relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27933397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxAphrodite/pseuds/xxAphrodite
Summary: The tadpole nightmares are starting to take their toll on the party. Seraphiel reaches out to someone who can't judge him for that. It's going to be fine.Hint: It will probably not be fine. Best to live life in the moment while he still has it.
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s), Halsin (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 32





	1. Sunlight

Seraphiel has maybe found his way through too much rum on the back end of a bad dream. Astarion is particularly prickly, so much so that Seraphiel flinches at the thought of approaching and slinks past to talk to someone less threatening. Volo is fast asleep, Alfira doesn’t need to be bothered by his nightmares, and Halsin--

Halsin’s awake.

Seraphiel glances back at the tents, at his companions either still fitfully sleeping their nightmares off or awake, hauntingly aware, perhaps more so bitter. _Stop using the damn tadpole_. Seraphiel knows. He’s trying to. His abuse of the thing has made him weak to invasion, as that admittedly attractive drow with a penchant for racism has taught him.

Not Minthara. Neir. Minthara could speak and she could dig, but she couldn’t command like he could. Seraphiel caved like paper in water, his will dissolved like ink. And then the nightmares--oh, the nightmares. The promises that he’ll be stronger than that if he keeps using the powers he’s been gifted. It’s a tempting thing. He doesn’t need temptation right now.

“You’re awake,” Halsin notes when he approaches.

“Could say the same to you.”

“I’m an early riser. What troubles you?”

Seraphiel should have known his discomfort was that apparent. Even when they first met, Halsin pinned him for a future mindflayer like he had these unusual symptoms down to a science. Maybe he does. All the rumors about Ketheric and Halsin’s involvement suggests the situation is personal, dire, and longwithstanding. The tadpoles may be new enough, but if it has anything to do with Moonrise Towers--and it appears it does--Halsin knows about it.

He doesn’t know about the dreams. He suspects, Seraphiel is sure, that something that affects the entire camp with a gloom has something to do with the tadpoles on this particular night, but Seraphiel doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Share a drink?” Seraphiel offers instead. Drinking is the most common pastime these days--nights, evenings, whatever. The Underdark makes time impossible to tell. 

Halsin smiles, broad and warm. “I think you might have had a bit too much already. Perhaps we could take a walk to clear your head?”

Seraphiel rolls his shoulders. His head’s pounding so hard his vision’s starting to blur. “A walk? It’s too dark for that.” He’s too drunk for that, more like.

“Oh, I don’t know. A little alone time might relax you. Unless…” Halsin’s eyes flicker behind them. “Perhaps I’m being too forward, but I figured what you and Astarion had was nothing serious.”

Halsin is not Seraphiel’s type. He’s attractive, of course, but Seraphiel prefers the kinds of men he can wrap his arms around. He doesn’t like feeling small. Astarion, therefore, _is_ , but Astarion isn’t here.

Halsin is. And he’s right. What he has with Astarion is nothing that wouldn’t allow for intimacy with someone else. Seraphiel just usually doesn’t want for that, and Astarion has no need to look outside of the wizard that bares his neck like a dog on command.

His dreams make him want for that. He wants right now, and someone is offering. Astarion isn’t.

“No. I just…” Seraphiel curls his tongue. He’s so fucking bad at flirting. He’s not even good at noticing when people are doing it, unless they’re laying it on so thick he’d have to be naive to miss it. Halsin’s flirtations are subtle if they’re even that--Seraphiel doesn’t know what he’s really done to deserve them. He’s been scouring for information about Moonrise, he supposes. Halsin’s a big fan of that.

“I’m not good at this,” Seraphiel offers. “A walk is fine. More than fine. We could skip it, even, if you’d like.”

Halsin’s laugh has Seraphiel burning from the tips of his ears all the way down his neck. “Not good at this indeed,” Halsin agrees. “Come. I want to at least give you the illusion of sunlight if we’re going to be trapped in here a while longer.”

Oh, so he’s prepared for this. It’s like, a thing. That Seraphiel’s been asked out on. A date. In the middle of the Underdark. With an Archdruid--ex-Archdruid?

“Sure,” Seraphiel says. He fumbles with even one word and feels his shoulders shrink when Halsin swings his arm around.

“We can skip the conversation since you seem distracted. That’s up to you.”

#

They skip conversation _and_ sunlight, it turns out.

Seraphiel drags himself against the crumbling stone wall of a long forgotten tower the moment they find a quiet space; he’s altogether unsurprised when Halsin’s arms raise, pinning him beneath the weight and stature of the thickest built elf that has probably ever existed. Seraphiel puts his hands on Halsin’s chest, his fingers catching beneath the straps baring the crest of Silvanus. Soft leaves cover the expanse of Halsin’s shoulders, although at Seraphiel’s insistence that the harness be free, they slide to Halsin’s feet alongside the image of Silvanus.

“I must warn you that I am not the gentlest of lovers,” Halsin says.

Seraphiel cocks his head to the side, baring marks on his skin gifted from the vampire he sleeps with. “As long as you don’t say you’re a beast in bed, I won’t consider the mood killed.”

Halsin offers a lopsided smile as he leans forward. Seraphiel arches against the dark brick and parts his lips, his hands roaming from chest to arms to curl into the straps there, next.

“Too obvious a joke?”

“A bit expected,” Seraphiel murmurs. Halsin’s tongue slides against his bottom lip; teeth follow. Seraphiel catches another breath before Halsin steals it and rolls his eyes up to the blackness above them.

The warmth is unfamiliar. It’s unpleasant, at first, but Seraphiel knows his way around mild discomforts. He’s got his shoulderblades pressed against hard brick, the weight of an elf one and a half times his size pressing against him so tight it’s hard to breathe, and a searing warmth crossing his neck in the form of Halsin’s thumb rubbing circles against his adam’s apple. Teasing. Contemplating.

“Someone as well-read as you will be hard to impress.”

“You’ve seen my company,” Seraphiel retorts. “My tastes don’t include poetry. Or much of anything, really.”

“But you collect quite a bit.”

Seraphiel collects any book he can get his hands on, sure. Halsin mentioned, once, that he’d miss the books he left behind in his library. The things he finds on the road are often not druidic in nature, but they _are_ books to pass the time.

“Not important,” Seraphiel says. He swings his arms around Halsin’s shoulders and rolls his hips, murmuring under his breath when the friction of Halsin’s knee sends a fresh jolt of pleasure along his skin. He scrambles forward and gets slammed back against the wall, their lips crashing so hard their teeth touch.

Halsin puts pressure on Seraphiel’s neck, soft but present, his fingers curling to scratch with blunt nails. Seraphiel can’t breathe as it is, drowning in Halsin’s kiss until he’s unceremoniously lifted.

“Hold tight,” Halsin says. His face splits into a grin. “Is the wall our surface of choice tonight, or would you prefer something softer?”

A bed would be easiest, but Seraphiel hasn’t seen a bed since he woke up on an illithid ship. Or--no, that’s inaccurate. He’s seen his fair share of beds. He hasn’t slept in one. He doubts that’s going to change.

“Surprise me.” Seraphiel hiccups on his next breath when Halsin grabs for his thighs, squeezing the sensitive skin there. There has to be some spell Halsin can cast to make either option easier on them. There are a number of spells Seraphiel could cast, if he could think of them.

“I think I can do that,” Halsin asserts. He winds them up dilapidated stairs, half-functioning things, but at least they still exist. The door and its frame are long past gone, but the building’s holding up well enough to support the second floor.

There is a bed, it turns out. Seraphiel scoffs when he sees it.

“Surprised?” Halsin asks.

“For a number of reasons, yes, at least one of them being your insistence on carrying me.”

Halsin quirks a brow. “Would you rather I tell you to crawl?”

Seraphiel settles with using his weight to maneuver Halsin to the bed. He’s pinned before he can relish in that triumph, dark waves spilling out behind him. His hair really doesn’t like to stay up. He ties it in some attempt to keep it out of his face, but it rarely holds up to the scrutiny of being scratched and burned and melted with acid. Here, too, just a little bit of force is enough to frame him in a halo of shadow.

“Yes,” he admits. “I enjoy that kind of thing, if you’re wondering.”

“That does put things into perspective,” Halsin says. “You didn’t strike me as the type.”

Seraphiel swings his arms around Halsin’s neck and drags him down for another kiss. This one burns with a warmth, an open-mouthed hunger, and Seraphiel has to remind himself for likely not the last time that fangs are not going to pierce his neck.

Teeth still are.

Halsin likes to mark, it turns out. Seraphiel arcs into a bruising touch; hands tight on his skin, grasping, while Seraphiel works to free them both of their remaining clothes. Halsin grinds against him with wicked intent and bites down at the collarbone. Not just the collarbone, but the side of his neck, too. And his chest.

“Not all of these are going to bruise, right?” Seraphiel gasps. “I _do_ have a lot of walking to do in the morning.”

“I imagine you’re turned on at the thought,” Halsin counters.

He’s right.

Fuck.

Still, Halsin slows at the interjection, turning his attention instead to the thighs. Seraphiel writhes with a discomfort when Halsin’s fingers trail against marks already made in his skin. Astarion is messy in the places he assumes no one else is going to see. Some of that will probably even scar.

“I’m confident in your tastes, actually,” Halsin adds.

Seraphiel tosses his arm over his eyes, shielding his burning skin from the embarrassment. “Shut up and fuck me, Halsin.”

“If you insist.”

Halsin spreads Seraphiel’s legs with no regard for the strength he’s using to do so and dips his head to swipe his tongue along the length of Seraphiel’s cock. The pain bleeds to pleasure; before Seraphiel can gather his bearings there are three fingers pressing against his bottom lip, prying at his jaw, slipping past his teeth.

“Perhaps the real beast is you,” Halsin offers. He drags kisses down the length of Seraphiel’s want, teasing, slow. So fucking slow. “You certainly move like you have half a mind. Dominated by a need.”

This impatience is new. He’s drunk out of his mind, but not _quite_ , still present enough to know he’s acting out. Wanting at all is relatively new, but that’s not the alcohol talking. His openness to do anything about it certainly is.

Seraphiel gets the opportunity to speak again when Halsin shifts back up, fingers slick enough to explore. He’s positioned with an obvious intent, so what in the hells is he waiting for?

“I’m sure you understand.”

Halsin tilts his head. His hair’s starting to come undone, too. Strands of warm brown fall to the wayside, woefully out of place but perfect in their imperfection. “I do.”

The reward is worth the wait. Halsin kisses him, frots against him, and prepares him with a similar impatience. Pleasure wracks through every moment, every breath; Seraphiel offers his hand to see to both of their erections and buries himself in the crook of Halsin’s neck. He smells _warm_. Seraphiel didn’t know it was possible to smell like warmth, but he’s like oak and pine and the earth after the rain hits.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Seraphiel breathes.

“Good. Turn around and take hold of the headboard for me. You’ll need it for balance.”

For _balance_ . Hells. Seraphiel does as he’s asked and shivers when the all-encompassing warmth of Halsin’s body curls over him like a precious thing. He’s everywhere, and he’s _here_ , and Seraphiel has a moment to catch his breath before Halsin thrusts hard enough to send him scrambling against the headboard.

“Balance,” Halsin reminds him with a chuckle.

“You are just so--godsdamn-- _big_ \--”

He doesn’t even necessarily mean the length, although that too is inarguably true. Halsin’s managed to slot himself everywhere. He snaps his hips and snaps Seraphiel damn well in half, offering languid kisses from the point of Seraphiel’s ear to his jawline.

Seraphiel chokes out a moan when pleasure rolls through his body with an intensity. He loses grip and blinks back into focus to find Halsin’s taken hold of his waist with one hand, the other dug into Seraphiel’s curls to toss his head back and force their gazes to meet.

“Ah,” Halsin remarks. “That’s it.”

Halsin hits that spot again, and again, and _again_. He shifts Seraphiel one last time, dragging him farther down the bed and marking the back of his neck with angry lovebites.

“So good,” Seraphiel whines.

Release finds him at the same time it finds Halsin. The sheets are stained with their pleasure--and probably have been stained with many a bodily fluid before him. Seraphiel considers that for only a moment before he’s forced to consider the hands rubbing patterns into his skin.

“You look good like this,” Halsin says. He looks good, too, of course, and he’s close enough to make out the details of his scar even in this darkness. 

Seraphiel tangles himself in the druid above him, wrestling him onto the sheets to get lost in where one of their bodies begins and the other ends. “I should get traumatized and wasted more often.”

“I don’t believe you need to do either of those things to take a walk with me, if ever you’re inclined.” Halsin pauses. “A real walk. With a real daylight spell that I do plan on casting to wake you in a number of hours.”

“That’s a big spell for a wake up call.”

Halsin smiles. “A day and night cycle is good for the body. I find myself missing the sun quite a lot down here, so I consider it a necessary expense.”

Seraphiel cracks a yawn and curls up comfortably beside Halsin, still tangled in all sorts of ways. His body reacts with a pain he’s not used to, bruises starting to form in awkward places. He’ll lament about it in the morning. He hasn’t felt this confident he’ll be flat unconscious in a long time. No dreams, just sleep.

“Good night,” Seraphiel murmurs.

“Until morning light,” Halsin returns. “I’ll return you to the rest of your companions then.”

“You get to decide when that is.”

Halsin’s grin is visible even before he leans forward, brushing their noses together in an eerie display of intimacy.

“I guess I do,” he says. “So you’ll have to trust I’m not wasting your time. Moonrise Towers is only getting closer.”

There is a time frame on all things--and that’s a good thing. Seraphiel buries himself in Halsin’s scent and chooses to think nothing of the hands that wrap around him. Feeling this small has his spine tingling with unease, but he’s safe here.

Until morning, anyways.


	2. Astarion

Astarion’s fingers are ice cold when they dance on the back of Seraphiel’s neck. The touch itself comes from seemingly nowhere, which adds to the chill of its arrival.

“Fucking hells,” Seraphiel hisses. He clasps the back of his neck and swivels to face the vampire; he’s by no means ready to face an expression like _that_. Astarion looks shocked, for a beat. Disbelief crosses his face, then confusion. A hint of anger.

“Phi,” he drawls. “Did you get snacked on by an animal last night?”

“I mean--no?” Seraphiel’s tongue curls. Making the joke about Halsin seems funnier in this context, but something about saying it feels like it’s not going to end well. His other companions don’t need to hear about what he got up to, even if they’re not paying attention right now. “Just took my mind off things for a bit. I had a nice evening, I guess.”

“A nice evening,” Astarion echoes. He lifts Seraphiel’s ponytail and squints, disappearing out of Seraphiel’s peripherals as he trails his hand past the popped collar of his wizard robes. “With the druid? I thought you stumbling into camp late seemed familiar.”

Familiar because they do it. They do it often, all things considered. Seraphiel swallows. “Is that a problem?”

“Of course not, darling.” Astarion’s voice sounds distant until it doesn’t. Whatever mood he’s in, he brushes it off with a visible shake of his head. “Why would you ever think I’d have a problem with this?”

Seraphiel glances ahead. Wyll and Gale have started to slow to allow them to catch up, conversing amongst themselves--but that won’t entertain them for long. The Underdark is a dangerous place and they need to keep focused. Seraphiel doesn’t have time for biting remarks and less time for actual biting, at least right now.

“It shouldn’t be,” Seraphiel says. “I still _distinctly_ remember you telling me that I needed to stop acting like the abandoned dog we picked up in the woods. I’m doing that.”

Astarion says nothing until they reconvene with Wyll and Gale. He’s contemplating something, though. Looking to find just the right statement to convey whatever it is he’s feeling. He has no right to be feeling anything, as a matter of fact.

“Can I see?” Astarion asks. The interjection of course turns everyone’s attention, and then turns it to Seraphiel, because Astarion’s attention is rapt.

“See what?”

“The marks Halsin left on you last night. They look quite intense from what I glanced.”

Seraphiel chokes. Wyll chokes. Gale chokes. Astarion continues to stare, the devil that he is.

“I mean--”

“Is he as rough a lover as one would expect? I can speculate plenty, but if you’ve had a taste it’s only fair you talk about it.”

“Halsin…?” Gale’s voice trails before he shakes his head. “You know that I am _definitely_ one to comment on your tastes, but I think I’m going to pass on my speculations for this one.”

“Can we not have this discussion while we’re cutting a path through the Underdark?” Wyll laments.

Seraphiel shares the sentiment so much he finds he has nothing more to offer. But Astarion waits. And waits. Seraphiel caves in the end.

“Later. Please.”

Astarion raises Seraphiel’s ponytail and peeks one more time. His jaw is set with a tension, not a joy. There’s no amusement, no playfulness, no coy smile. Astarion is _pissed_.

“Later,” he concedes. “Wouldn’t want to ruin our friends’ appetites for adventuring, after all.”

#

Seraphiel pushes himself a bit too far in the interest of avoiding the camp tonight. Wyll notices--he’s obvious about noticing--but he says nothing for probably the same reasons.

“That bulette has done a number on you more than once, Phi,” Gale says. A scroll of resurrection turns to ash in his hands. “Perhaps we should call it.”

“Couple of potions and I’ll be fine.” Seraphiel stumbles a bit in finding his footing after death. He’s ashamed to say that brand of unconsciousness is not unknown to him.

“Let me try this again. We’re going to call it.” 

Seraphiel squints. “I have spells left.” They have another quick rest in them still. Another hour with a nice meal and a potion or two will have them pushing forward. Just a bit more.

He isn’t going to get a bit more. Gale snatches the potion of healing from his hands and pockets it.

In lieu of a sleep spell that won’t work on a half-elf like him, Gale threatens to beat him with his quarterstaff in an almost cheerful monotone. Or, of course, they can all be adults about things and not drag one wizard to unconsciousness just to get somewhere safe. Seraphiel is more than content to walk back to camp given the alternative is to be carried by an objectively weak group of men.

“Perhaps if Halsin was here to carry him he’d be more inclined to leave,” Astarion chimes. Seraphiel fixes a glare in Astarion’s direction.

“Is this going to be a problem, Astarion?”

“Why would I ever have a problem with you sleeping with a literal bear?”

“Take it out on each other in the bedroom, not here,” Wyll interjects. Seraphiel expects to hear a sultry _oh, I intend to_ , but instead gets met with a huff and an encroaching silence.

Gale slips Seraphiel the potion he stole and lingers, worry in his eyes. “Take that for the road back to camp. You really took a beating out there. It seems you’re not done in that regard.”

Seraphiel’s gaze flickers to Astarion, who, as per usual, is poorly hiding his disinterest in their conversation.

“He’s acting like a jilted lover.”

“Far as I can tell, he _is_ that to you,” Gale says.

Seraphiel scoffs. “He made it very clear that we are not.”

“Right. Well. I’m going to leave that problem for you to solve and take Wyll ahead a little bit. You can have whatever conversation you need to have, because it appears there’s been a miscommunication on some front.”

Seraphiel and Astarion don’t have a conversation. In fact, they don’t talk at all. The camp comes into view the same as it always does, set up with a fire roaring and Halsin in their peripherals. He is, as expected, a healthy distance away. Astarion visibly bristles regardless.

“I suppose offering to show you where I went last night isn’t going to go over well,” Seraphiel says.

Astarion cracks his neck, then his fingers, and offers a smile for the first time in a while. “Some place quiet enough to mask the noises I know you make is going to be just perfect, darling. Show me where he took you.”

#

Maybe being alone with an irate vampire is a bad idea.

Seraphiel considers this only after he’s led Astarion through the crumbling doorway and up the half-destroyed stairs, leaning against the wall once they’ve ascended and flinching when he presses against a sore spot. Astarion’s gaze flickers from the bed to the wincing wizard.

“How vanilla--on the surface, anyway. The way you’ve been moving today suggests something far more sinister.”

 _Sinister_. Seraphiel scoffs. Astarion inspects the bed thoroughly, plucks a fraying blanket Seraphiel acutely remembers folding before he left this morning, and sits at the foot of it when he’s done.

“Well go on. Strip. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

“You want to see these marks that bad?”

Astarion tilts his head. “On the contrary, I want to _rip_ that beast’s throat out for thinking he has any right to mark something that isn’t his.”

Seraphiel runs his hand across his collarbone, on one of many marks, and then frees himself of his belt to let the robe slip off his shoulders. “I’m not yours either.”

Astarion doesn’t reply. Seraphiel keeps his attention on his own self and removing his robe slowly, half-way terrified of Astarion’s response to his statement and half-way terrified of his response to the marks. He also, truthfully, hasn’t inspected the damage to his body. He went to bed thoroughly enveloped and awoke sprawled out amongst blankets like some sort of lord of this trash house. He hadn’t thought to do anything but admire the light Halsin gifted him with to explore their bodies all over again.

“Turn around,” Astarion says. “Face the wall.”

Seraphiel does. He can’t see the marks that line the back of his neck, but he can _feel_ them, and they were far enough above the line of his collar to make Astarion curious. On looking down there are a number of bruises on his abdomen, too. Near his hips. On his thighs.

Astarion crosses the room. At first it’s almost like he’s careful not to touch, hovering just over Seraphiel’s hips with his lips pursed just shy of his ear.

“Did he say anything?”

“He said a lot of things,” Seraphiel replies. Astarion grips his hips with a vengeance, so tight Seraphiel chokes out a gasp of pain and braces himself against the wall.

“About _my_ marks, Seraphiel. Did he say anything?”

Seraphiel tilts his head back, or he attempts to. Astarion’s nails dig into a particularly sore bruise that has him writhing, his arm firm against the brick and his forehead firmer against his arm. It hurts. It feels good. It _hurts_.

“‘Course,” Seraphiel pants. Astarion’s grip loosens just enough for him to manage a response more articulate than that. “It’s no secret that we sleep together, Astarion. Everyone knows.”

“What did he say?”

This is, without a doubt, jealousy. Seraphiel categorizes that and swallows the anger that rises with it, because Astarion has absolutely no right to act like a possessive asshole when he’s the one who insists on calling any conversation about feelings short. A single night with Halsin was somehow more intimate than the small few he’d spent with Astarion. That’s no coincidence. Astarion wants the distance. He wants this to be casual. Seraphiel is just taking that to its logical conclusion.

“He said that I have preferences,” Seraphiel says. “Or tastes, I think, is the word he used.”

“Someone certainly had a taste,” Astarion grumbles.

“If it bothers you, then say you’re serious about me.”

Seraphiel already knows Astarion can’t say it--not just _won’t_ , but _can’t_ , because he can’t conceive of having feelings when agency is so new to him, so malleable. Freedom can still be taken away.

Astarion leans him into the wall, pressing his skin firm against the brick. Seraphiel hisses in pain.

“I’m not bothered by anything but this brutish _mangling_ of a perfectly good meal. Where am I supposed to bite now? It feels like a personal attack.”

Seraphiel frees himself of his robe and makes a point to watch Astarion’s expressions shift when he does so. There’s that pain again, a barely masked jealousy, and a hunger that takes the forefront so strong it’s impossible to see anything else.

“I will enjoy making you this mad over and over again,” Seraphiel says. He means that.

“You enjoy anything that results in your untimely death,” Astarion counters. “But let’s save this for later. I have better uses for that mouth of yours.”

Seraphiel’s knees are one of the few splotches of his body that aren’t bruised, but given the way Astarion curls his fingers into Seraphiel’s hair and drags him down, they’re about to be. Seraphiel is more than okay with that. He makes expert work of Astarion’s belt and frees him from his restraints.

Seraphiel sucks until he’s dragged onto the bed, then finds his way back to the head to continue his ministrations. Astarion’s fingers trail almost too gently off the back of that--satisfied, content, absent-minded. His vampire makes soft noises of pleasure he always goes out of his way to mask, like the act of experiencing pleasure is something too embarrassing to share aloud.

It turns Seraphiel the hells on, encourages him even when his tongue starts to feel numb. He teases, he sucks, he licks, murmuring under his breath on occasion to send those low vibrations exactly where he wants them. Astarion’s lashes flutter. His hands trail down, past the curve of Seraphiel’s ears to hook into his collarbone.

Astarion bites down right on a hickey when Seraphiel obliges the silent request to shift upward. Usually there’s a kiss first, lazy and sloppy and suspiciously comfortable, but Astarion skips it this time. The pain is different, marginally worse, but not nearly as bad as Seraphiel was expecting. Something about vampire bites makes them pleasant enough to feel nice. That’s not just his masochism talking. Probably.

Cold fingers curl around both of their lengths, pressing them together as Astarion brings himself to a languid climax. Pleasure rolls through Seraphiel’s body in waves, soft and uneven, tapering off when Astarion reaches his limit and his hand falls limp on the mattress.

“That’s it?” Seraphiel breathes. Astarion raises a brow, curls his lips; that mischief is familiar.

“Hm? I’m exhausted, darling. If you _really_ need to get off that bad, you can crawl back to camp and beg the bear for it.”

Seraphiel’s long past teasing, long past his smart mouth. He’s burning up, bleeding at the neck, panting. This isn’t fair. “I want you.”

“Is that so?”

“Please, Astarion.”

Astarion hums. “Awfully fast of you. Getting you to beg takes minutes more, usually.”

Usually they don’t spend the first few minutes hate-frotting, either. Most of these escapades involves only enough foreplay to make sex fun for the both of them, and they’re both impatient men. Seraphiel’s burning so hard he’s dizzy, red from his cheeks to his chest. There are better times for reservations.

“Tell me the price.”

Astarion, it turns out, is not patient either. He has his mouth open before Seraphiel’s finished his sentence, ready to make his deals. He wants it too. That’s hardly a surprise.

“I _do_ need a few minutes to catch my breath, but you know how to put on a good show, don’t you? Do well enough and I’ll have no choice but to take you.”

Seraphiel takes joy in doing so. He roams his hands over his own body with a shamelessness and takes Astarion’s hands to invite the same in due time. Astarion’s eyes flicker across his skin, his fingers catching--deliberately, it would seem--into particularly awful looking marks left from the man before. Seraphiel dips his own hands down the curve of his hips and takes his time with getting himself off. He edges, deliberately, breathing out soft noises and pulling himself away from Astarion’s touch when he gets particularly close to climax.

Astarion’s working himself probably before he even realizes he’s doing it. When his eyes snap from the haze they’re in to his own body, his dazed expression darkens to something with more purpose.

“I’ll erase everything from that memory of yours but me,” Astarion vows.

“That’s a tough ask. Wizards pride themselves on the shortcuts our brains can take to remember--”

Astarion thrusts into him and curls his palm over Seraphiel’s shoulder in the same movement, forcing him down so deep he chokes.

“Me,” Astarion repeats. “And were it up to you, that would be how it would stay. The way you move is proof of that.”

Jealousy’s resurfaced. Seraphiel can’t help but furrow his brows, but he’s lost in the roll of their hips too soon after that to protest. Astarion is right. This thing they have between them has his mind going dumb, has both of them acting without reason. It’s just as bad for Seraphiel as it is for Astarion.

They don’t stop. They can’t stop. Seraphiel’s blood stains the sheets and the blanket both when he stirs sometime later, blinking awake to an empty room and no sunlight, unlike last time. The thought is almost a little cold; it’s colder with Astarion around, though. Impossible to feel a chill without him.

A note’s left on the table ensuring the coast is clear. A small potion bottle--invisibility-- is leaned against an old stack of books. _Just in case_ , the note reads. A glimmer of concern. Not enough to have stayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> abdirak's next don't ask me how, idk. he's gonna be at baldur's gate for my own wish fulfillment.
> 
> also i haven't played this game in like a month so astarion is--a lil--not in character. but until they fix the party scenes i'll just be here waitin fam

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler alert: Astarion's about to be extremely fucking pissed but this is what happens when you don't have the exclusivity talk, smh
> 
> Am I using this as an excuse to write smut with random characters? You bet. Wyll's looking mighty cute and Abdirak's horny as hell for any MC that stripped for him, we all know it.


End file.
